


Fading Light

by jotunking



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Arranged Marriage, Explicit Sexual Content, Fantastic Racism, Happy Ending, Identity Issues, Jealousy, Jotun Biology, M/M, Magical Bond, Pining, Political Alliances, Single Sex Jotnar
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-04
Updated: 2020-11-04
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:20:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27391114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jotunking/pseuds/jotunking
Summary: The King of Jotunheim has died without an heir, plunging the realm of Frost Giants into a state of civil war. Odin's favored victor, a Jotun warrior by the name of Kartak, hopes to strengthen his claim to the throne by marrying Laufey's only surviving son. Loki, still reeling from the revelation of his true parentage, impulsively agrees to the match, but the arrangement impacts his relationship with Thor in unexpected ways.
Relationships: Loki/Thor (Marvel)
Comments: 28
Kudos: 152





	Fading Light

The veil is _heavy._

Loki thought as much when it was first placed on his head three days ago, and that was _before_ it was weighed down with the many embellishments now adorning the fabric. Today, at his third and final fitting, the veil manages to feel nearly as heavy as his horned helmet.

It’s a fine garment—thick layered silk made from the cocoons of Elven glow-moths, shimmering embroidery thread spun from the finest Asgardian wool, tiny rubies mined from Nidavellir’s geode veins, iridescent pearls harvested from the clamshells of Vanaheim’s blue lagoons—but it's as uncomfortable as it is luxurious.

The skirt—if two panels of fabric held up by nothing more than a gilded waist cord could even be _called_ a skirt—is the only other article of clothing he’d been given. It matches the veil in both material and design, the precariously-fixed gems tinkling quietly with every subtle movement.

The seamstress’ apartments face the training yard, and through the open windows Loki can hear the din of clashing steel from down below. He wonders if his brother is out there now, swinging his hammer and laughing with his friends.

Loki feels an icy fury course through his veins at the mere thought of it.

He wishes he were out in the training yard too, a dagger in one hand and a spell in the other. He wants to see the Einherjar recruits practice their swordplay. He wants to smell the burning coals of the castle forge. He wants to knock someone—preferably Thor—down into the dirt.

Loki’s gaze drifts back to the reflection in the mirror, where he lets it linger. He barely recognizes himself—having only taken his Jotun form a handful of times since learning the truth of his parentage—and the unfamiliar sight of his blue skin and red eyes ties his stomach into a hard knot.

He’s never seen quite _so much_ of this form before now, either. The revealing ensemble is a far cry from his usual courtly attire, and the pale markings that cover his body in strange patterns are on full display. The idea of wearing this little in front of the entire kingdom is enough to make him redden, but the idea of wearing this little while also wearing _this skin_ makes him want to hide away in his chambers and never come back out.

The seamstress interrupts his assessment of himself by stepping up onto the platform in front of the mirror, a piece of netted chiffon held delicately in her hands. Loki has known Karsi all his life—she’s filled the the royal family’s wardrobes with countless tunics, capes, gowns, and doublets over the years—but he never would have predicted that she’d someday tailor him an outfit for an occasion such as this.

Once the netted chiffon is securely attached to the rest of the veil, Karsi steps down from the platform and pulls him up to take her place with a gentle tug on his wrist. She beams up at him, clearly satisfied with her work, and Loki just barely resists the urge to scowl back at her.

“The detailing is lovely,” says Frigga, meeting Loki’s gaze in the mirror. Her chair is situated behind the platform, next to a small table that holds an ornate wine decanter, two glass chalices, and a modest spread of grapes, dates, and cheeses. Frigga has been politely nibbling at the grapes since their arrival, but Loki has touched none of it. The wine is beginning to tempt him now, however, despite the yet-early hour. “You look very handsome.”

“I look ridiculous,” says Loki, turning around and tearing off the veil. Karsi gasps as half a hundred pearls and rubies scatter across the marble floor. “I will concede that the Jotnar wear very little in terms of armor, but this is impractical to the point of hinderance.” He adjusts the cord around his waist, raising it half an inch higher on hips only for it to slide back down again once released. “How can anyone walk—let alone fight—in something as wispy and delicate as this?”

“This is ceremonial garb,” says Frigga, rising from her chair and sweeping up the mess Loki made with nothing more than a shimmer of seiðr. Karsi breathes a sigh of relief when the gems appear on the nearby worktable in a neat little pile. “You are not riding into battle, Loki.”

_Then why does it feel like I am?_

When Karsi returns to the platform, she’s dragging a wheeled rack of colorful fabric swatches behind her. “All that’s left to do is pick a color,” she says, slipping a crimson-dyed cloth off the frame. “I was thinking red, to complement your eyes—”

“Red is _Thor’s_ color,” snaps Loki. “When have you _ever_ seen me in red?”

“Loki,” scolds Frigga, the tone of her voice reminding Loki of his childhood and making him wince. Before he has the chance to mutter an apology, Frigga places a gentle hand on Karsi’s shoulder and asks, “Would you mind giving us a moment of privacy?”

“Of course, Your Majesty.”

Karsi gathers up her skirts and curtsies before heading for the exit, only pausing to scoop Loki’s discarded veil up off the floor. When the door falls shut with a gentle _thud_ , Loki turns his attention back to the fabric rack, busying himself by sorting through the swatches to avoid Frigga’s gaze.

His fingertips skim over the reds, blues, and violets until he comes across a color he likes—a green as verdant as the Asgardian forestlands. He illusions the fabric of his skirt to match, watches as the deep green takes over the white in the reflection of the mirror, then frowns.

_It looks all wrong._

It shouldn’t look wrong. This is his signature color. If he were to march down to his chambers and fling open the doors of his wardrobe, he’d find a hundred garments of this exact shade hanging there. And yet… it _clashes._

It clashes with his own skin tone.

He uses his seiðr to slightly alter the shade, turning the skirt a rich emerald green that matches the stone inside his mother’s favorite ring, and his frown deepens. “I look like a peacock.”

Frigga laughs.

It’s a pleasant sound, and one not often heard around the palace as of late. The last few months have been characterized by long stretches of silence in between stilted conversations in public and explosive arguments in private.

The unexpected tinkle of laughter reveals a rather simple truth. A truth he’s been hiding from since the day that everything changed. A truth that he’s kept buried beneath mountains of rage and sorrow. A truth that threatens to blunt the sharp edges of his unrelenting indignation.

Loki misses her.

He misses the early morning strolls through Iðunn’s orchard. He misses the hours spent poring over ancient tomes in the palace library. He misses the late afternoon games of Hnefatafl in the queen’s chambers. He misses her company, her wisdom, her laughter.

_It was her own secrets and lies that ruined us,_ he stubbornly reminds himself. _None of this was my doing. None of this was my fault._

Frigga steps up onto the platform and lays her hand on the back of Loki’s shoulder, her touch impossibly warm against his bare skin. The sight of them both in the mirror’s reflection—the stark difference in their appearances—makes Loki want to look away, but then she casts a wordless spell that turns his skirt teal.

It’s not a color he would normally choose—being more blue than green in truth—but it’s an improvement over the last two shades he’s tried. It suits his skin tone at least, and complements the Dwarven rubies lining the skirt’s hem nicely as well. The palace jeweler may even have some rubies of his own to adorn Loki’s wrists and neck...

Some of the tension from the last few minutes begins to melt away, and Loki sighs.

“I will not wear that veil,” he says.

“You don’t have to wear anything you don’t want to,” says Frigga. She comes around to stand in front of him, blocking the view of his own reflection and clasping his hands in her own. “You don’t have to _do_ anything you don’t want to either, Loki. You know that, don’t you?”

Beyond the apartment’s wide window panes, the sky has begun to darken. The air inside feels thicker now too, heady with that earthy scent that comes just before a heavy rainfall. 

Loki wonders if this sudden change in weather is his brother’s doing. Not that _he_ should have anything to be distressed about. Loki has been known to lose control of his magic from time to time—little bursts of seiðr that momentarily distort the senses or send nearby objects tumbling to the ground when he’s particularly upset—but nothing so dramatic as what Thor’s feelings unwittingly precipitate. If Loki’s own emotions were capable of summoning storms, Asgard would have flooded by now.

He wonders if Thor would even notice such a thing, or if he would go about his days as usual, completely unaware of how the palace had sunken into the sea. 

Loki turns back to Frigga and says, “I know, Mother.”

· · · · · · · · · ·

The proposition was first put forth behind the great golden doors of the council room. They were seated around the conference table—Loki, Thor, Odin, Frigga, Heimdall, and Tyr—when the discussion turned towards Jotunheim’s ongoing civil war. As was always the case when the subject of Jotunheim was broached, Thor cast a quick glance in Loki’s direction.

It made Loki clench his fists to keep from punching a hole through the table.

The only conversation they ever had regarding Loki’s newly-revealed heritage had been three months prior, when Thor—half-drunk and glassy-eyed—accosted Loki in a corridor to deliver an awkwardly rehearsed speech about how they would always be family.

_We were raised together. We played together. We fought together. You are still my brother._

Loki, caught off guard by the sudden declaration, could only nod dumbly before escaping to the nearest stairwell. What he should have done was bury his dagger between Thor’s ribs.

Not to kill him, of course. Just to make him hurt. To make him bleed. To make him feel even a shadow of the pain that Loki himself carried around day and night.

“Kartak has taken Utgard,” said Odin. “This is his fourth victory in as many moon-turns, and a significant one at that; Utgardhall has always been the official seat of the King of Jotunheim.” He turned to Heimdall and asked, “How have the Jotnar taken to his new residency?”

“Kartak’s support amongst the commoners continues to grow,” answered Heimdall, “but the jarls have their doubts regarding his claim. Geirmar still has the support of Jotunheim’s most noble families.”

“Holding the capital gives Kartak a considerable tactical advantage,” said Tyr. “Utgardhall sits atop a mountain peak, making it nearly impregnable. Geirmar’s latest defeat in Glæsisvellir should have been the final blow to his campaign, but his support grows ever stronger.”

“The Jotnar value strength and battle prowess,” said Odin, “but they also value tradition, and royal bloodlines are of significant importance. Kartak may be Laufey’s cousin, but he is only one of many, and Geirmar’s parents are _both_ direct descendants of King Hrymer. Geirmar has stronger blood ties to the monarchical line, and thus a stronger claim to the throne.”

“What does it matter to us who sits the throne?” asked Thor. “As long as the next king respects the peace treaty between Jotunheim and Asgard, their affairs should be of little concern to us.”

Odin reached into a pocket beneath his armor and pulled out a small roll of parchment. In the red wax of the unbroken seal, Loki could make out the impression of a kraken. “I have been in touch with Kartak for some time,” he said, unfolding the letter. “He is pragmatic, astute, and formidable. A stable leader on the throne of Jotunheim benefits everyone in the Nine Realms.”

Loki knew Odin well enough to know that this was more than a friendly correspondence between kingdoms. “Kartak wants an alliance,” said Loki. “He wants to bolster his army with Asgardian forces in order to defeat Geirmar.”

“Yes,” said Odin. “The Einherjar will make quick work of what remains of Geirmar’s army. Any remaining jarls that refuse to swear fealty to the crown will quickly be brought to heel. We can end the war in a fortnight.”

“What does he offer in return for such a favor?” asked Thor. “Surely, he doesn’t expect us to win his war for him out of the kindness of our hearts.”

“He hopes an alliance will allow for a new era of cooperation between our realms,“ answered Odin, keeping his one-eyed gaze fixed on Loki. “Laufey is dead. Kartak wants to let old grudges die with him. He wants an alliance built upon something more sentimental than peace treaties.” 

Loki watched as Odin circled the wax seal with the pad of his thumb. Beside him, Frigga was wringing her hands together and staring down at the table. Loki narrowed his eyes and asked, “What more does Kartak want from us?”

“Not us,” said Odin, sliding the roll of parchment across the table to Loki. “You.”

Loki swallowed dryly, reaching for the letter with trembling fingers. What could this Jotun warrior possibly want from him? Political counsel? Magical Aid? An endorsement? _Prince Loki_ was scribbled in black ink on the outside of the scroll, the last two runes slightly smudged. 

Loki conjured a small blade, sliced through the hard wax seal, and read:

_Jotunheim bleeds. The longer this conflict endures, the more lives that are lost. I would see an end to this needless war and spare my subjects any further suffering. The fragility of my ancestral claim to the throne is the cause of my troubles, and it is something that has the potential to plague my rule until my death._

_Odin speaks as warmly of you as he does his true-born son. By all accounts, you are capable, clever, and comely. Furthermore, you are the only child of Laufey King, who is fondly remembered as one of the greatest leaders to ever sit upon Utgardhall’s throne. The people of Jotunheim would celebrate your return to this realm, and they would welcome your rule alongside mine._

_Marry me, and together we can usher in a new age of peace and prosperity on Jotunheim. Marry me, and the wounds caused by the Aesir-Jotnar War will begin to heal at last. Marry me, and you will become the second-most powerful Jotun in all the realms._

_Kartak Kogason_  
_King of Jotunheim_

“This union would unite our kingdoms,” explained Odin. “This is how alliances are formed, how permanent peace is brought about. The Aesir-Vanir War lasted for millennia, and it was a marriage that finally put an end to it.”

“Marriage?” asked Thor, looking between Odin and Loki in bewilderment. “Whose marriage?”

Odin ignored him. “The choice is entirely yours, Loki.”

Loki stared at the letter in his hands, feeling that same sinking sensation he’d felt when he watched his skin turn blue in Odin’s vault. His motivations that night had been benign enough. He’d spent weeks crafting a spell that would allow him to slow time, but temporal manipulation was as tricky as it was elusive. He found he needed something powerful— _powerful and cold_ —and he knew of only one such item in the Nine Realms.

As luck would have it, the item in question happened to be stored right in the Asgardian Palace. So, Loki shrouded himself from view, snuck into Odin’s well-secured vault, and attempted to harvest some of the raw ice power contained within the Casket of Ancient Winters. The moment he laid his hands upon it, however, everything he knew about himself shattered into a hundred-thousand pieces.

He never did manage to finish crafting that time spell.

“We don’t want you to feel pressured to accept this proposal,” said Frigga, interrupting his memories. “We will support you in whatever decision you make.”

When Loki dropped the letter to the table, Thor reached over and grabbed it. Loki didn’t even bother to try and stop him from taking it—allowing Thor read Kartak’s words for himself would be easier than having to repeat them.

Loki watched his brother’s eyes scan over the runes on the parchment. When he finally lifted his gaze once again, it was to glare at their father. “What sort of game is this?”

“This is no game,” said Odin. “There is no better way to secure an alliance than through marriage, Thor. When you are king, you will certainly oversee your fair share of such arrangements.”

“Loki has never even been to Jotunheim!”

“I was _born_ there,” said Loki, leaning over to snatch the scroll out of Thor’s hands. “What concern is it of yours, anyway?”

Loki could hear the bitterness in his own voice, and he desperately wished that Heimdall and Tyr weren’t present for this conversation. They both looked almost as uncomfortable as Loki himself felt. 

“Why would it not be my concern?” asked Thor, looking at him with wounded incredulity. “I am your brother, and your future king besides.”

“And what would be my role here on Asgard under your rule, _My King_?”

“You—you are to be my advisor,” stammered Thor. “My most trusted counsel—“

Loki let out a scornful laugh.

“Enough,” said Odin, silencing them both. “This is Loki’s choice to make, Thor. Not yours. Kartak has every reason to pursue this union. Loki is Laufey’s only living child, and a marriage between them would strengthen Kartak’s claim to Jotunheim. If Loki accepts this proposal, he will hold a great deal of power as King Consort of Jotunheim, and his own children will someday come to inherit the throne.”

“Children?” asked Thor. “How can Loki have children with—”

“I will meet with Kartak,” interrupted Loki. He refused to sit in silence while his brother received an infinitely embarrassing lesson on Jotun biology—all while in the presence of the entire council. “I will agree to no more than that today.”

“Very well,” said Odin, nodding contentedly. “Arrangements will be made to welcome Kartak and his entourage to Asgard for a diplomatic banquet.”

Frigga’s countenance was a mask of perfect neutrality, but Odin looked as satisfied as ever. He redirected the conversation to an upcoming visit from Queen Aelsa, asking Tyr to assemble a party of Einherjar to escort the Elven ruler from Heimdall’s Observatory to the palace upon her arrival.

_My own parents don’t want me here,_ Loki thought miserably. _It must shame them to know that the entire realm is aware of my true heritage after all their efforts to keep it a secret._

Thor was as silent as a stone at Loki’s side, but his fists were clenched tightly and his cheeks were red with fury.

_It must shame him too,_ thought Loki. _He has always hated Frost Giants, and the reminder that his brother is one such monster must be unbearable._

__

__

· · · · · · · · · ·

Loki watches the procession of Jotnar from his place high upon the dais. They file into the Great Hall two at a time, each pair carrying an ornate casket filled with treasure between them.

_Just what Asgard needs,_ Loki thinks as yet another overflowing chest is placed at the foot of the dais. _More gold._

As the room slowly fills, Loki can’t help but notice the way every gaze lingers on him. Even the Asgardian nobles seem more interested in Loki than they are in the throng of Frost Giants flooding into the Hall. Hardly anyone spares Thor so much as a second glance, and Loki finds it passing strange to be the center of attention for once.

The lack of clothing on their Jotun guests at least makes him feel slightly less self-conscious about his own revealing attire.

The royal guardsmen are garbed in only scant bits of armor, their faulds, tassets, gauntlets, and spaulders—all made of crudely wrought iron—stamped with the impression of Kartak’s family emblem.

Noble members of the king’s entourage wear finer fabrics in cuts not unlike the skirt Karsi made, while the precious metals and jewels adorning their necks, wrists, and ankles signify their wealth and stature.

The royal attendants—Loki is unsure whether they are willing servants or spoils of war—are unshod and clad in simple linen loincloths. There are no apparent marks of enthrallment—no cuffs, shackles, or collars—but Loki, admittedly, knows precious little about Jotun class structures.

Thor sits beside him on the dais, richly dressed in finery befitting a future king. He wears a sleeved satin tunic beneath a doublet of crimson velvet, black doeskin breeches so tight they stretch over his muscled thighs, and sturdy leather boots more suitable for the training yard than the feasting table.

He looks as regal as ever tonight—his long hair shining like spun gold and his glacier-blue eyes bright under the lamplight—but his gloomy demeanor has somewhat eclipsed his usual radiance.

Loki wonders if his brother feels vulnerable without Mjølnir at his side. According to Heimdall, the Jotnar do not customarily sup with friends and allies while armed or armored. Therefore, it was decided that only Kartak’s royal guard and the Einherjar would be either during the banquet.

Thor hadn’t liked that at all, and he made his displeasure about the arrangement plainly known.

_At least you will be fully clothed in Asgardian raiments,_ Loki had wanted to say when he overheard his brother complaining about the matter. _I will be half-naked in front of the entire court, the shameful truth of what I am laid bare for all to see._

Not even an hour has passed since Thor first laid eyes on Loki’s true form. He had already been in the Great Hall—sulking in the corner and helping himself to the mead—when Loki passed beneath the entrance’s gilded arches in his teal skirt and ruby jewels. Thor’s gaze had gone to him at once, his eyes widening and his lips parting in such a perfect expression of surprise that it would have been comical if not for the sobering circumstances. He stared at Loki for what felt like a long time, and his cheeks were pink when he finally tore his gaze away.

Since then, he has barely so much as glanced in Loki’s direction.

_It could have been worse,_ thinks Loki. _The sight of me could have sent him into a blind fury right here in the Great Hall. He could have tried to fight me. He could have tried to kill me._

A sudden shuffling on the dais pulls Loki from his thoughts. He sees Odin, Frigga, and Thor rising from their seats and scrambles to do the same. The procession has already ended—half a hundred treasure-filled chests line the floor below dais and the Jotun guests have taken their places amongst the Aesir nobles crowding the back wall.

Loki chews his lower lip and fidgets with his bracelet, risking a sidelong glance at Thor. _It’s unfair that he should look so handsome on the night that I am to meet my courter,_ he thinks. _How could any man—Aesir or Jotun—ever hope to measure up to him?_

After an agonizing few minutes of expectant silence, the largest Frost Giant Loki has ever seen finally comes swaggering into the Hall. He’s flanked by two bannered guards, though he towers over the both of them, and a crown of jagged quartz crystals rests atop his hairless head.

_Kartak King._

An unpleasant shiver runs down the length of Loki’s spine at the sight of him.

Kartak is as muscled as a bull—with enough breadth to match his height—and his blue-grey skin is covered with as many scars as ridges. He’s dressed simply—a loincloth of supple leather wrapped around his waist, a mantle of dappled fur draped over his shoulders, a belt of animal skulls dangling at his hips—with only the crown to indicate his kingly status.

The thought of lying beneath Kartak in a marriage bed makes Loki want to bolt from the Hall.

“I have heard many tales of Asgard’s beauty,” says Kartak, his deep voice booming off the gilded walls. “Stories told of shimmering seas and lush forestlands, of clear skies and golden sun-rays, of rushing waterfalls and lilting birdsongs… Yet when I crossed your Rainbow Bridge, I saw only grey skies above and grey seas below.”

Kartak comes to a slow stop at the foot of the dais, and Loki sees that his crown isn’t made of quartz crystal at all—it’s made of _ice._

“My companions were half-convinced that your Bifrost failed us,” he continues, staring up at Odin. “It was not until we glimpsed the palace in the distance that we could be sure we had left Jotunheim at all.”

Kartak’s red eyes finally go to Loki—taking in the whole of him with one sweeping glance—and Loki suppresses the urge to cross his arms over himself. The Jotun king’s face betrays neither approval nor disapproval, and Loki isn’t quite sure which he’d prefer.

”We did not even hear the sweet melody of birds,” says Kartak, his gaze slowly drifting towards Thor. “There was only thunder.”

Thor scowls, his fists clenched tightly at his sides, but he says nothing. It’s a decent show at self-restraint, but the evening is still young. Loki wonders just how much the Jotnar know about Thor’s powers. Probably not much, but the correspondence between the weather and Thor’s god-title hasn't escaped Kartak’s notice at the least.

The storm first started late last night, soon after Loki had already retired to his chambers, and it has only grown more furious since.

Loki lay awake most the night while the raging tempest rolled across the night sky. The rain beat hard against the windows and the furniture trembled with every rumble of thunder. A part of Loki wanted to march down to his brother’s chambers and demand an end to it, but another part of him—the dark part that always reveled in such displays of Thor’s immense power—wanted to step out onto the balcony and let himself be washed away.

In the end, he stayed right there in his bed, counting the seconds between lightning cracks and thunder claps until the repetition of the task finally lulled him to sleep.

“It’s true that our seasons are pleasantly temperate,” says Odin, “but the rains keep our rivers flowing and our crops growing. Perhaps on your next visit, the weather will be fairer.”

_His next visit,_ thinks Loki, frowning. _How is he so confident about this alliance already?_

“Allow me to introduce you to my family,” says Odin, gesturing down the dais. “This is Frigga, my wife and queen; Thor, my son and heir; and, of course, Loki.”

“Prince Loki,” says Kartak, bowing his head low enough to make the ice crown slide further down his ridged forehead. “Please accept my sincerest condolences for your loss.”

“I beg your pardon?” asks Loki, momentarily dumbfounded. He racks his mind for context, but only manages to conjure up the memory of his skin turning blue in Odin’s vault. “My loss?”

“The death of your father,” says Kartak, lifting an eyebrow. “Laufey was a fierce warrior and a great king.”

“Oh,” breathes Loki. “Thank you.”

Laufey’s death was certainly no great loss. Any suggestion to the contrary, under different circumstances, would have been enough to send Loki into a fit of laughter. He knows better than to correct Kartak on the matter, though. Loki’s royal heritage is the entire reason the Jotnar are here tonight, after all, and there is nothing to gain from offending them now.

_Jotunheim bleeds._

“We have prepared a great feast in honor of our new acquaintanceship,” says Odin, gesturing to the palace attendants standing alongside the eastern wall.

At the Allfather’s wordless command, the attendants all raise their hands and send up a multicolored wave of seiðr that engulfs the entirety of the wall. When the last shimmering remnant of their spell vanishes, so does the wall itself, leaving the Great Hall doubled in size. The newly-revealed half of the room is filled with over a hundred feasting tables, each one already set with food and drink. 

“Welcome to Asgard.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
